The Boy Who Never Smiled
by Ms Elaura
Summary: We all know who and what Lord Voldemort turned out to be, but do we know why? Tom's process of becoming the Dark Lord here, and more
1. The Boy

**The Boy Who Never Smiled**

* * *

It was an in-between day. The air was chill, and the numerous clouds looked like lumpy porridge in the ice-grey sky. It should have been snowing, but the humidity was low. Tom could almost taste the dryness when he breathed sharply through his mouth, and it was an unpleasant feeling. He pulled his thin jacket tighter around him, shivering from head to toe. His breath hung mistily before him, mingling with the London fog. It was an hour after school on a Friday, and the orphans were all supposed to play outside to get rid of their excess energy.

Tom gazed at the frolicking children with a mixture of jealousy and loathing. Not one of the rosy, happy faces belonged to anyone who had ever been kind to him. Even the girls, looking so innocuous in their frilly dresses and pigtails, even they were worthy of abhorrence. Every one of them had, at one time or another, taken the time to kick Tom in the shins. The boys, however, made the girls look like baby rabbits. Tom knew they despised him, and he detested them right back.

At a glance, Tom Marvolo Riddle did not seem the kind of person who would provoke generic hatred. He was quite tall and spindly, and he had a rather lost, lonely look about him. He looked like he never got enough to eat, which was true. His orphanage uniform was far too short in the arm and leg, but it was also baggy, and it seemed to hang limply from his shoulders. Tom had jet-black hair that clearly needed a good trim, but it was his eyes that drew the attention. They were bright turquoise, almost unnatural in hue, and when framed by his dark eyelashes, they were no less than striking.

Most oddballs at Tom's orphanage were left to their own devices, but Tom was different from the average outcast. Tom knew that he was different, and though his peers were not quite clear on how special he was, the fact that he was odder than odd was enough to drive them. When they grew bored with football, the children would either verbally insult him or physically attack. It was not all harmless, either. Tom had once broken four bones when a boy named Gregory Hamill had shoved him down the stairs for a thrill.

On this freezing March afternoon, Tom was sitting near the bottom of the steps, shuffling his feet and rubbing his hands together in order to keep warm. He had foolishly left his book inside, so he engaged himself in people-watching. Nearly all the faces made him want to strangle the faces' owners, though they all seemed relatively benign at the moment. Rather curiously, he noticed a new face. It was a girl with long golden hair and a huge blue silk ribbon on top of her head. She was not wearing a uniform, but a long fur cape and a velvet dress. Tom felt a pang of rage. He had always hated people who flaunted their wealth.

The girl was standing near the gate, scanning the multitudes of children. She was suddenly joined by two adults, a man and a woman, both with extremely high-class clothes. The threesome exchanged words, then started toward the orphanage entrance. Tom was suddenly aware that the rich girl was not an orphan, she was here with her family on some sort of business. Any respect he had had for the girl prior to this dissolved at that instant.

As the people reached the steps, Tom noticed that the woman had a large diamond on her finger and his anger heightened. "Pardon me, my lad," the father greeted in a pleasant enough voice, "but would you happen to know where Mr. Carney is?"

Tom knew perfectly well where Mr. Rupert Carney, the orphanage headmaster, was located. He was at the pub, probably on his fifth gin by now. However, Tom knew he would be dead if he told this to the strange family. "He went to town some two hours ago," Tom informed them. If he had known how to make his soft, frank voice at all saccharine, he would have done so. "Is there anything you need?"

"We are here to adopt a Muggle," the girl blurted. Her mother quickly shushed her, but the damage had been done. The parents tried to smooth it over.

"I understand completely," Tom replied. "It shouldn't be too hard for you to find a Muggle here, they're all over the place. In fact, I'm the only child in this orphanage who knowswhat a Muggle is."

The father did a small double take, staring at Tom's face with a most peculiar expression. "Are you Maria Salamair's son?" he asked eagerly.

"Yes," Tom sighed. For an instant, he looked more lost than ever, but he recovered himself quickly. "My name is Tom Riddle. Who are you?"

The man, bowing slightly, introduced himself. "I am Petricus Chubb. This is my wife, Berthaâ€¦ my daughter,  
Lucy."

Tom had slightly warmed to the strangers once he realized they were his kind. "Where are my manners? Would you like to come in? You could have a cup of tea while you wait for Mr.Carney." Tom spat out the word "Carney" as though it was a hideous blasphemy.

"We'd love it," Mrs. Chubb smiled. Tom did not smile back, for he was still rather resentful that the Chubbs were so wealthy. He did, however, lead the Chubb family through the orphanage double doors, down the corridor, and into the sitting room besideRupert Carney's office.

"Hannah might still be in the kitchen," Tom told the guests. "I'll just go ask her to get some tea going, shall I?" The Chubb family, who were seating themselves, nodded.

Hannah Hiddy, the housekeeper, was the only person at the orphanage, child or adult, who was ever kind to Tom. This was not surprising, for she, like Tom and the Chubbs, knew precisely what a Muggle was. Hannah was a wispy young woman with a very pretty face and a cloud of light brown hair. She had started working at the Whitechapel Home for Orphans when Tom was four, and was like an aunt to him. Since she had learned Tom's secret, she had entertained a soft spot for the boy. Tom found her scouring pots.

"Hannah?" he asked tentatively. "There are some people in the sitting room who would like a cup of tea." Hannah looked up. Her face was unusually flushed, and she looked rather ill.

"Whom?" she inquired. Tom definitely noticed that she was breathless. "I really haven't the time, Tom, because with Muggles I can't use any shortcuts."

"They aren't Muggles, Hannah, they're like us," Tom responded impatiently. "Use all the magic you want, and I'll get those pots for you."

Hannah took this offer agreeably enough. She removed a wooden wand from the pocket of her apron and prodded the burner of the stove with it. Instantly, it warmed up. Hannah tapped her wand on the cupboard door, and a kettle whooshed out, landed in the sink, and filled itself before zooming across the room to the stove. Meanwhile, Tom scrubbed the pots and pans in the other basin of the sink, already beginning to regret his deal.

"Thank you ever so much for taking care of those, Tom," Hannah beamed as teabags flew across the room behind her back. "Usually I can handle Muggle cleaning, but lately, I've been feeling too dizzy to do some of it."

"Have you seen a doctor?" Tom asked, concerned.

Hannah waved a hand, dismissing the idea. "It's not that bad. Besides, I'm not going to entrust my health to some Muggle quack who doesn't know a magic wand from a chopstick." Tom, however, was not fooled. He had always been able to tell when people were lying to him, and Hannah was lying her head off. It _was_ that bad, and Tom felt strongly inclined to turn Hannah's wand on her and force her to go and see a doctor. However, he finished the dishes in silence.

With the tea finished and the pots cleaned, Hannah and Tom returned to the sitting room, Hannah carrying the tea tray. Tom noticed rather uneasily that Hannah's breathing was very ragged. Mr. Chubb rose to greet them when they entered the chamber. "Why, is this little Hannah Hiddy?" he grinned. "You were in my House, remember?"

"Ravenclaw," Hannah responded, nodding. "Weren't you already a fifth-year by the time I got into Hogwarts, Petricus?"

"Sixth year, I think," Mr. Chubb replied. "I'm sure you've met Bertha. She was a fourth-year Hufflepuff, remember?"

"Yes." Hannah looked more ill than ever.

"We need to catch up, Hannah, we really do. Why don't you sit and have a cup of tea? You're welcome too, of course," he added to Tom, who had remained silent all this time. Hannah gazed longingly at a nearby armchair, but meekly stated that she had more work to do. However, Mr. Chubb insisted, and Hannah, sighing with relief, collapsed into the chair and poured herself a cup of tea.

As Mr. Chubb engaged Hannah in conversation, Lucy Chubb turned to Tom, who took up very little space indeed in his high-backed armchair. "So," she started, "are you going to Hogwarts?"

"Don't be silly, Lucy dear," Mrs. Chubb chortled good-naturedly. "With a witch like Maria Salamair for a mother, the boy is guaranteed to be a wizard!" Her daughter slumped in her chair sulkily. Mrs. Chubb hijacked the conversation. "Are you here visiting Hannah, Tom?" she asked. Tom slowly shook his head, mouthing inaudibly. "Didn't catch that, sorry."

"I live here," Tom murmured, suddenly blinking rapidly. "Mother died two hours after I was born. She only lived long enough to name me."

Mrs. Chubb looked sympathetic. "Always thought she was too small to have children," she tutted. "What about your father?"

"Oh, _that_," Tom sneered, his demeanor changing completely. "He isn't in the picture. No, no, they were married," he threw in hastily, seeing the look of shock on the faces of the two Chubb females. "But he abandoned her before I was born because he found out Mother was a witch." Tom's teacup suddenly exploded,and tea splattered all over the room. Tom sat rigid in his chair, his right hand clenched around the armrest, breathing hard. Hannah cleared away the mess with a wave of her wand.

"Calm down, Tom," she commanded sharply. He relaxed his grip on the armrest, but was clearly not calm at all. He slouched in the corner of the chair, fuming. Lucy giggled, but was silenced by one look from Tom's eyes, which briefly seemed brighter than ever. Hannah handed him another teacup with a reprimanding look.

"Sorry," he mumbled after a while, if only to break the silence. "I got a bit carried away. You were saying, Mrs. Chubb?"

"Oh,er, well, my Lucy is starting at Hogwarts this year. She turns eleven in May, so she qualifies," Mrs. Chubb spluttered, clearly still rather shaken. "Are you going in the autumn, Tom?"

"Yes," he answered, "I had my birthday in December." Tom thought rather resentfully of that birthday. His only presents had been a card from his Muggle (non-magic) schoolteacher and a small, leather-bound diary he had bought for himself on Vauxhall Road and in which he had still not written.

"Really?" Lucy put in eagerly, before her mother could stop her. "Which House are you going for?" Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the most prestigious school of magic in the world, was divided into four Houses: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Gryffindors were brave and daring, Hufflepuffs were sweet and pleasant, Ravenclaws were bookish and clever, and Slytherins were shrewd and ambitious.

One of Tom's deeper secrets, something not even Hannah knew about, was that Tom's mother had been a descendant of Salazar Slytherin, one of the four people who founded Hogwarts. The reason this was a secret was that almost every wizard who turned to the Dark Arts had passed through Slytherin house. Slytherins had a terrible reputation. Only the Salamair family, ironically, consisted entirely of good Slytherins. All the other pureblood, all-Slytherin families had churned out one Dark witch or wizard after another.

"I'm not sure," Tom replied slowly. "I don't think that you can try for a House, they just put you in it depending on your character and strengths. What about you, Lucy?"

Lucy blushed furiously. "Probably Gryffindor," she countered. "It sounds like the best of the lot." Tom's hands automatically balled up into fists. "Ravenclaw would be fine, though, and Hufflepuff would be great, but imagine if they put me in Slytherin! I would leave, or make them change it, wouldn't you? I mean, Slytherins are always really evil--"

"LUCY!" Mrs. Chubb pulled her daughter aside and whispered something into her ear. Lucy's eyes widened, and she glanced up at Tom, whose eyes were gleaming again. "I apologize on behalf of my daughter," she told him, "she was not aware of your family history. Your mother was a good woman. I knew her. Never spoke a word against anyone in her life." She glared at Lucy, who went sulky again.

Tom relaxed and looked around him. Mrs. and Lucy Chubb were having an argument. He quickly grew bored, watching them, so he turned to Hannah. However, she was still speaking to Mr. Chubb about their school days, and their talk was heavy with nostalgia. Tom rolled his eyes. He glanced at the window, and nearly choked on his tea. Strolling up the walk was none other than Rupert Carney. Mr. Carney was weaving slightly, and his clothes were wrinkled. Tom panicked and made for the exit.

"What's the matter, Tom?" Hannah started to say, but she heard Mr. Carney enter and her question was answered. "It's too late, Tom, you'll meet him right outside the door. Here--" she got to her feet, wincing, and threw open a closet "--you can hide in this. I'll get him out of here as soon as possible and give you the all clear." Tom stumbled into the closet, treading on several boxes. Mr. Carney paused outside the door, apparently because of the noises he heard.

"Who's in there?" he hollered. Hannah shut the closet door almost all the way, but left it slightly ajar so that Tom could see out of it. The Chubbs were looking completely bewildered.

"Why are you hiding--"

"Sh!" Hannah commanded. Her eyes darted over to the closet. She looked as terrified as Tom felt. Hannah let Mr. Carney in. "Oh, Mr. Carney, you're back! I've just finished giving the Chubb family their tea, they're here to adopt--"

"I'll handle this," Mr. Carney sneered coldly. "Get back to work." Hannah shot Tom a helpless, fleeting look before she headed back to the kitchens. Tom started to wonder how he had come to be in this situation. Mr. Carney spotted Mr. Chubb's regalia and changed his tone to an oily one. Tom noticed distastefully that Mr. Carney had obviously not washed his colorless hair in a week or two; the grease seemed to be dripping off it.

"You must be the Chubb family?" he greeted, his voice easily as slimy as his hair.

"Yes," Mr. Chubb responded eagerly, standing and shaking Mr. Carney's hand. "I am Petricus Chubb, and this is my family: my wife Bertha and my daughter Lucy. We are interested in adopting a child."

"That can be arranged. What age and gender of child are you looking for?" Mr. Carney looked like a sallow, hook-nosed salesman preparing for a large purchase.

"A boy, probably somewhere around six," Mrs. Chubb replied. "We prefer that he is a gifted child who has just learned to read." Tom stifled a snort. He did not think that a child who learned to read at age six was all that gifted.

"I shall assemble all of the six-year-old males for you, and you can decide which you will adopt." He sounded like he was advertising a sale of puppies. Mrs. Chubb shivered suddenly. "Are you cold?" Mr. Carney asked. ("SUCK UP!" Tom coughed softly into his hands.) "Here, there are some sweaters in the closet." Mr. Carney reached for the doorknob. Tom's stomach seemed to turn over.

"I don't need one," Mrs. Chubb insisted firmly, glancing at the half of Tom's face that she could see.

"If you'll give me a few minutes, I'll be back with the children, and you can speak to each of them separately." Tom sighed with relief as Rupert Carney headed for the door, but just then, a terrible thing happened. The box Tom was standing on collapsed from his weight, and Tom toppled out of the closet with a clatter. Several other boxes came out with him, some of which crunched as glass items inside shattered. Doom seemed to hit him in the face, or perhaps it was the hardwood floor. Someone seized the back of his collar and pulled him up. Tom found himself staring into Mr. Carney's livid face. His breath smelled strongly of gin. "What were you doing in there, boy?" he snarled, resuming his usual cold voice.

Tom thought fast, knowing that it would go over horribly if he told Mr. Carney the truth. "Playing hide-and-seek," he lied silkily. Tom had two talents involving mendacity: detecting it and performing it.

"How long have you been in there?"

"About an hour. I suppose nobody thought to come and look for me inside. Boy, when I get back out there, they are going to be so mad that I fooled them!" Tom forced his voice into a syrupy, childish treble.

"Orphans are not allowed in here," Mr. Carney whispered, so that the Chubbs would not hear. "You know that perfectly well. Go to your dormitory, and I'll deal with you later." Mr. Carney twisted Tom's right wrist sharply as he pretended to help Tom up, then shooed him away.

Tom made off as fast as he could for the dormitory. He knew Mr. Carney too well to think that he had half a chance of getting off. As he strode up the stairs, he could practically feel the belt on his back already. Tom shuddered convulsively, half with apprehension and half with insuppressible rage.

He found Hannah cleaning in his dormitory. She looked terribly pale, with her hair all over her face. She brightened when she saw her friend. "Did the Chubbs manage to get you out?" she asked. Tom threw himself onto his bunk, moaning. He explained what happened, and Hannah blanched to an even paler tone.

"Funny, that," Tom stated grimly. "I've looked that scummy Muggle in the face for eleven damned years. I should be used to having the stuffing lashed out of me by now. Nonetheless, sometimes I just want to," Tom trailed off, turning to Hannah. "Can I borrow your wand?" he joked. "I want to try out the Cruciatus Curse on Rupert Carney."

Hannah's eyes flashed. "That isn't funny," she snapped, her mild temper flaring up for that rare occasion. "The Cruciatus Curse is one of the Three Unforgivable Curses, performing it just once could land you in Azkaban."

"Anywhere but here, Hannah," Tom sighed absently. "Anywhere but here." He reached up toward the top of his bunk and ran one long finger along the canvas. "Will you sit with me awhile, Hannah, before?"

"Of course." Hannah set down her feather duster and sat on Tom's bed. "What do you want to talk about?"

Tom sighed heavily, still tracing the pattern on the canvas with his fingers. "Could you tell me about my mother, Hannah?"

Hannah took a deep breath, struggling to remember the older schoolgirl she had known. Maria Salamair took many words to explain. Slowly, she went into the description. Hannah started with appearance, dwelling on how Maria so resembled her son. She had had long blue-black hair in silky ringlets, with the same high cheekbones and almond-shaped, turquoise eyes. "She sang like a bluebird, and her laugh. God, you should have heard her laugh. It was like silver bells were ringing all around you," Hannah murmured, her hand still on Tom's forehead. "And such a character! She was nearly always happy, carefree, the only time she was ever sad was when her father Marvolo died, and it was awful to see. Almost like watching an angel cry."

After half an hour, Hannah was once again lost in memories, and Tom had turned away from Hannah, blinking uncontrollably. Both of them were jerked out of their respective states by a bang upon the door. Tom felt the fight-or-flight reflex kicking in already. Rupert Carney hurled the door open, spotted Tom, and curled his lip with dislike.

"Riddle," he growled, spitting it out in precisely the manner that Tom spoke the word "Carney." "You are holding up Miss Hiddy. Miss Hiddy, for the last time, GET BACK TO WORK!" Hannah resumed her dusting promptly, pretending not to eavesdrop.

"As for you, Riddle," Mr. Carney continued, "you are in very serious trouble."

"For playing hide-and-seek in a closet?" Tom asked, once more forcing his voice to be sugary. "I did not know there was anything wrong with--"

"For entering an area that is off-limits to all orphans, particularly you. For breaking several very expensive Christmas ornaments. For listening in on a classified conversation. For being inside during the recreation time. For these reasons, and for the simple fact that I do not like you, Riddle, you are in trouble."

"I wasn't aware your personal preferences had anything to do with justice," Tom retorted, his voice barely a whisper, all false sweetness forgotten. "My, my, Carney, aren't you getting full of yourself, thinking your opinion means so much? Next minute, you'll be signing a treaty with Adolf Hitler and slaughtering all the turquoise-eyed freaks in Europe."

Mr. Carney purpled. "How dare you--idiot boy--piece of filth!" Mr. Carney seized Tom's arm. "You'll pay for that!"

Hannah gave him a what-did-you-say-that-for kind of look, which was laced with pure pity. Tom did not much mind. He would have been punished anyway, the slur meant only a couple more lashes than he would have had in the first place. Mr. Carney dragged Tom down two flights of stairs into the basement, flung him into a small room, and exited briefly. Tom knew this room well. It was called the Wailing Room by the orphans, and all of them had seen the inside of it at least once in their young lives. Tom had been in the Wailing Room more than any other child, and had every inch of wall memorized. It was a desolate room with bars on the only window. The only furnishing was a ratty old twin bed, and there were numerous, unpleasantly bloody-looking stains on the floor, wall, and even the ceiling. Tom sat down on the bed, staring straight ahead of him.

He heard Mr. Carney re-enter the room and draw the shades, but did not turn to look. He concentrated on a particularly splatty stain, trying not to think of how it got there, just observing its color. "Take off your upper things, you know the drill," Mr. Carney barked. Tom removed his jacket and shirt, still staring at the stain. He shivered; the basement was drafty, and his undershirt was doing very little to keep him warm.

Tom heard Mr. Carney raise the belt, and Tom braced himself, still staring straight ahead. The belt made sudden contact, and Tom bit his lip, his shoulders searing. It was quickly followed by another lash, and another, and anotherâ€¦ Tom quickly lost count. He tried to focus all his energy on not crying out, or showing any signs of his agony, for that was what Mr. Carney wanted. Restraint, however, was coming harder with every crack.

"THAT--IS--FOR--THE--EMBARRASSMENT--YOU--CAUSED--ME--IN--FRONT--OF--THE--CHUBBS!" Mr. Carney roared. He finally stopped, panting, and looked around at Tom's face. "No tears?" he cried, sounding quite disappointed. "I'll get you to blubber. You've yet to pay for insulting me, boy!" The belt impacted again, and Tom let out an involuntary gasp of pain. Not only was Mr. Carney hitting harder than ever, but he was using the end with the buckle. Somehow, Mr. Carney managed to hit exactly the same area every time. After several blows, Tom could not help it. He screamed at the top of his lungs, praying that a neighbor would hear and call the police. Someone at the back of his mind reminded him that Mr. Carney was doing nothing illegal, he was allowed to discipline his charges, but Tom did not care. He shouted as loudly as he could, though this seemed to just encourage Mr. Carney. After what seemed like hours, Mr. Carney relented, and Tom collapsed, whimpering softly into the musty quilt of the old bed.

"Never insult me again," Mr. Carney snarled, rolling up the belt as he rose to leave the Wailing Room. "Never, do you hear me?"

Tom, his face shiny and flushed, glared up at Mr. Carney, a tic going in his right shoulder and his eyes blazing. He hissed something in what was clearly another language, and though Carney did not understand a word of it, he could tell it was an insult. "That's one day you're staying in here, Riddle, and no meals!" he snapped. "Throw in an extra hour for whatever the hell it was you just called me." He stormed out of the room and slammed the door.

Tom heard muffled voices out in the main basement area, accompanied by high-pitched laughter. Three seconds later, Gregory Hamill, Tom's archenemy, poked his head in. "Heard you got the brains knocked out of you, Riddle," he giggled, his attractive face splitting into a wide grin. "A whole day, eh? Don't worry, we're already planning a welcome back party for when you get out of there. Besides, you aren't going to get out of Sunday School, and this week's lesson is going to be _fascinating_."

"Aren't you supposed to be off drinking the blood of mortals, Hamill?" Tom snapped. Gregory only smirked more widely, and he slammed the door. Once he was sure he was alone, Tom reached up and felt his back. His undershirt seemed damp, and was stuck to his skin. Tom winced at the slight pressure of his fingers, so he quickly drew his hand away. His fingertips were smeared with blood. Tom flinched and buried his face in the pillow.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**

* * *

**

At dinner on Saturday, Tom emerged, heavily bandaged, from the Wailing Room, a look of intense agony chiseled into his face. He seemed to have grown even more saturnine during his stay, and even Gregory Hamill was tactful enough to leave him be for the moment. Tom seated himself at the head of one of the tables and ate his meager rations rapidly, wincing once in a while if he moved his arm too quickly.

Tom glared mutinously up at Rupert Carney's private table, where he was eating hearty helpings of fillet mignon and mashed potatoes. "Who the hell does he think he is?" Tom murmured to himself. He had spent the better part of his time in the Wailing Room in anguish, every second cursing the moment that Rupert Carney was born. Tom was suddenly hit by a morbid but eerily satisfying vision of Mr. Carney lying at his feet, writhing in pain, while Tom stood over him with a wand.

At this moment, all four legs of Mr. Carney's chair snapped, and he toppled onto the floor. Tom, his face slightly red, turned back to his stew, keeping his eyes down so that Mr. Carney would not suspect him. A burst of laughter rang through the dining hall, but it was quickly stifled as Mr. Carney, livid with anger, scrambled to his feet, his pale comb-over falling into his monochromatic eyes. He lifted his hand and pointed a stubby finger in Tom's direction. "Riddle!" he shrieked. Mashed potato was stuck to his jaw, and his face had gone from sallow to a deep crimson.

Tom stared silently back, his blood boiling, but his face scarcely showing it. "Yes, sir?" Tom replied innocently. Hannah, standing in the kitchen doorway, had her face buried in her hands.

Mr. Carney looked about ready to defenestrate somebody. "Out with it, Riddle, what did you do?" He was breathing hard through his clenched, crooked teeth, and his nostrilswere flared.

"I'm on the other side of the room, sir. How could I possibly have done something to you from over here?" Tom forced himself to keep eye contact. Mr. Carney had to accept this, but he kept on giving Tom funny looks as the boy carried his dishes into the kitchen.

Tom may have been imagining it, but Mr. Carney seemed to be in a horrible temper with him over the next four months. Tom did his best to stay out of the way, but harder to avoid were Gregory and his friends. They kept pulling him aside and whispering that they were still working on their plan, never stating what their plan was. Tom was strongly suspicious that this plan of theirs involved some new way to make him miserable.

Meanwhile, Hannah's illness seemed to be getting worse. After a while, she began to use magic with almost every chore, and had trouble standing up for more than five minutes on end. One afternoon in early June, Tom found that she had actually fallen asleep while washing dishes. When Tom tapped her shoulder, she woke up sharply and began scrubbing frantically. It took her a full minute to notice Tom standing there, looking very worried indeed. "See a doctor, Hannah," he commanded.

"I'm not ill, why should I go to the doctor?" Hannah yawned.

"You _are_ ill, Hannah, stop tergiversating!" Tom snapped, folding his arms and glaring at her. "Why won't you admit it?"

Hannah hesitated, staring at Tom intently. "I just made some zucchini bread," she announced loudly. "Do you want a piece? It's lovely warm." Tom opened his mouth to answer, but Hannah stuffed a piece of the spicy bread into his mouth and went back to work. Tom gave up on Hannah and stormed out of the kitchen and up to his dormitory, exasperated. Rather irritably, he seized a book from his dresser and dashed down the stairs. As he burst through the orphanage doors, he thought he had walked into the wrong place. Instead of laughing and playing, three-quarters of the orphans were standing in a semicircle, whispering excitedly. Gregory and his closest friends were standing in the very middle.

"What is this?" Tom demanded, his quiet voice icy with suspicion.

"A surprise, Riddle," Gregory sneered, stepping forward. "We've been planning this for months, all for the one event."

Tom made to sneak back up the steps, but the semicircle tightened into a circle, blocking his path. He turned to face Gregory again. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm sick of attacking when you're down, Riddle," Gregory snarled, his face forming a demented smile. "Shoving you down the steps, throwing rocks at you, dumping water on you from stair landings. It's all fun, of course, but frankly, if there's no resistance, it gets a little boring." Tom bit his lip and got ready to run. He was not sure what was going to happen, but he knew he was not going to enjoy it. Gregory took another step forward, his round grey eyes twinkling with anticipation.

"What, you've finally decided to leave me alone?" Tom retorted. He tucked the book into the inside pocket of his jacket and folded his arms protectively over his chest.

The maniacal smile had still not left Gregory's mouth. "No, Riddle," he spat. "I'm going to fight you when you have your guard up. I'm going to prove to the world that I'm the bigger man--" (here Tom rolled his eyes, for Gregory was at least a head shorter) "--by fighting you properly. I am going to fight you, and you are going to fight back, and I am going to prove that I can beat Tom Riddle, even when he knows I'm about to do it."

"It took you only four months to come up with that idea?" Tom scoffed. "Quite the brain you are, Gregory."

"That's not it," Gregory insisted defensively. "If I win, these kids get a free-for-all. Same thing happens if I lose, for that matter. Either way, you're going down, Riddle." He was now circling Tom with a look of smug satisfaction on his face.

Once more, Tom hissed a series of quick, furious words in some language other than English, and Gregory stared at him. "What was that you just said, Riddle?" he barked.

Tom broke into a run, but was promptly shoved back into the circle by a burly older boy. "I asked you a question," Gregory roared. "Answer it!"

Tom shook his head and prepared for the first blow, but it never came. Gregory's fist had come within a foot of Tom's stomach before it skidded to a halt. Gregory was staring at the ground. Tom looked down too. A snake about a quarter of the size of a garden hose had slithered from the nearby brush, its back arched, glaring up at Gregory. "You called, Masssster?" the snake greeted Tom, speaking in the same, swift language.

Tom stared at the snake in surprise. "What do you--you can talk to me?"

"What do you think that language is?" the snake replied.

"I don't know. I just thought it was something of my own, even though it always sounded like English in my head. Hannah thinks it's gibberish."

"It'sss Parssssseltongue," the snake informed him, "and you are a Parsssssselmouth. But right now,I have to help you."

Gregory Hamill was backing away from the snake, shaking uncontrollably. "Afraid of snakes, are you?"Tom asked. He turned to the snake. "Go for him, friend."

"Yesss, Masssster," the snake agreed, nodding. With that, he dove for Gregory, snapping at his ankles. Gregory screamed for help, and Tom just stood there, giving the snake instructions. The orphans were in a panic, and the circle had dispersed. Gregory's best friend Bartholomew Werner was making a beeline up the steps, but Tom did not notice.

"His arm's near the ground, go up his sleeve!" he shouted at the snake. "That's it, now bite his ear! Are you poisonous? No? Damn. Oh well, bite him anyway!" Gregory shrieked with terror and pain, trying to shake the snake off. Tom kept staring at Gregory, seething. This was his chance to get back at Gregory for everything. The snake came out of his collar and twirled around his arm several times, nipping his fingers playfully. "That will do, my friend," Tom cried in Parseltongue. "Return to me. He has learned his lesson." The snake fell to the grass and crossed over to Tom, who picked it up and put it on his shoulder. It looped itself around his neck and continued to look daggers at Gregory.

Bartholomew reappeared at Gregory's side, staring at Tom and the snake. "I had better go," the snake whispered. "That new boy has notified your guardian. If you ever need assssisssstance, little Masssster, be sure to call for it. Any of ussss sssnakesss would be willing to help you." The snake slid down Tom's arm and disappeared into the bushes.

"Thank you!" Tom called after it.

At that instant, Mr. Carney emerged from the orphanage and hurried down the steps to where Gregory was standing. "What happened?" Mr. Carney asked, looking as though he already did not believe the story.

"Mr. Carney," Gregory gasped, his breath coming in short, deep bursts. "I was talking to Tom Riddle, and he said something funny."

"Riddle has a sense of humor?" Mr. Carney looked even more disbelieving. Tom glared at him.

"No, he said something weird, in an odd language, and all of a sudden this huge snake came out of the bushes!" Gregory spluttered, pointing at the myrtle bush. "Riddle talked to the snake with his funny language, and the snake attacked me! Riddle kept on yelling at it, and every time he said something, the snake would do something else!"

Mr. Carney looked up at Tom, his face contorted. Tom could see that Mr. Carney's shrunken mind had drawn a blank. He clearly thought the story was complete rot, but here he had the chance to punish Tom Riddle, the boy he detested above all others. Eventually, to Tom's dismay, sadism won over logic. "Riddle," he muttered, "explain yourself."

"Are you suggesting, sir, that I have the ability to communicate with snakes?" Tom asked in a faux-scrupulous voice. "If you are, sir, perhaps you should take into account the absurdity--"

"I am suggesting nothing, Riddle," Mr. Carney growled. "Follow me." He closed his hand around Tom's left wrist and twisted it sharply. Tom flinched. He was left-handed, and this would mean that writing would be painful for at least a week.

Mr. Carney tried to lead Tom away, but Tom rooted his feet to the ground. There was no way he was taking another beating, not when he had been in the right. "I said follow me, boy," Carney said, his voice dangerously tense. "You will do as I say." Mr. Carney marched around to the back door, half pulling, half dragging Tom along with him.

He hurled Tom into the Wailing Room and hovered in the doorway. "That's ten days you've earned yourself, Riddle, and be grateful it isn't more than that. One meal every two days; it's far more than you deserve."

"You aren't going to beat me?" Tom cried in disbelief.

"Not today. I haven't the time today. The Chubbs are finalizing their adoption of Derek Pritchard." Tom struggled to remember who Derek Pritchard was. Was he that scrawny, runny-nosed little blond boy who was always asking Tom to play kick-the-can? Yes, that was it. Tom wondered vaguely why the Chubb family had picked Derek. "If you're lucky, I'll forget about beating you at all, but I wouldn't bank on that."

"I'll get dirty," Tom scorned, looking at Mr. Carney's slimy hair. Tom was one of only about four children in the orphanage who held any store by personal hygiene.

"Don't push your luck, Riddle," Mr. Carney snarled. He turned on his heel and left Tom to his very relieved thoughts.

On the fifth day, Tom woke up early. It appeared that Mr. Carney had forgotten about Tom's beating. Indeed, he seemed to have put it out of his mind that Tom even existed. As Hannah had pointed out as she had brought him his last meal, Mr. Carney had even found a new scapegoat. To Tom's delight, it was Gregory Hamill. Apparently, Mr. Carney thought Gregory was a bit off-balance because he kept insisting Tom could talk to snakes. Tom had neglected to tell Hannah that he was a Parselmouth, thinking it might upset her.

Tom walked into the adjacent half-bathroom and stood before the mirror. As far as grime was concerned, Tom was starting to look Carneyish. Disgusted, Tom filled the basin with water and washed up, bumping his elbow badly when he tried to remove the dirt from his hair. Tom had always taken an unusual interest in staying clean, probably because he was constantly surrounded by dirty people.

Tom's stomach rumbled loudly. He still had twenty-four hours to go before his next meal, unless Hannah managed to sneak him something before then. Tom collapsed onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the hunger pangs in his stomach. To pass the time, he sat up, pulled a small bundle out of his inside jacket pocket, and  
separated the items. The bundle was comprised of two articles. One was the four-page letter his mother had written to him before he was born, all about his heritage, his talents, and his father. Tom was the only one who had ever read the letter. In fact, he had taught himself how to read with that very letter when he was thirteen months old.

The second item was a wizard photograph of his mother and her best friend in their late teens. As was characteristic with magical photographs, the subjects were moving. Maria Salamair kept on hugging her friend, Charlie Digby, tightly around the neck, while Charlie laughed and tried to shove her away. Tom's mother looked remarkably like him; tall, spindly, and attractive. Charlie was also tall, but he was athletically built and fair-haired. Tom did not know anything about him except what his mother had written on the back of the photograph: "_Me (Maria Salamair, Slyth.) in my 6th year, w/ best friend Charlie Digby, Gryff., 7th year._"

Tom looked from the photograph to the letter. Apart from Hannah's stories, these were all he had to tell him about his mother. Tom watched the photograph with interest as Maria and Charlie seized sticks from the ground and began to feign a Muggle duel, laughing uncontrollably. He could even hear the sticks clapping together. However, the duel stopped, and the tapping noise continued. Tom's eyes shot up from the photograph, and he looked wildly around for the source of the sound. The only thing moving was something outside the window, and it was tapping on the bars fiercely. Upon closer observation, Tom recognized it as a barn owl.

Tom immediately thought back to the calendar on his wall. He quickly deduced that it was June twelfth. Cursing himself for forgetting, Tom rushed to the window and jammed it open. The owl landed softly on the grass, gazing at Tom with large, dark eyes. "Are you a Hogwarts owl?" Tom asked eagerly. The owl responded by holding out a talon, which held a rolled-up envelope. "Yes! All right, hang on." Tom slipped one of his slender hands through the bars. "Can you put that in my hand, owl?" The owl placed its foot in Tom's hand and released the letter. The owl's foot was very warm compared to Tom's hand, which was freezing.

"Thank you," Tom said appreciatively. "I'll go get something for you. Back in a flash!" The owl hooted and stayed where it was. Tom searched frantically for a scrap of food, finally finding a bit of stale sandwich crust. "Hope you like tuna fish and pickles," Tom sighed apologetically. The owl, however, seemed grateful, and it nibbled his thumb before taking off.

With the owl gone, Tom eagerly sat on his bed. The envelope was made of yellow parchment, and was held together by a large, purple wax seal. The seal was imprinted with a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake, all around a capital H. On the other side, Tom found the address.

_Mr. T. M. Riddle, The Wailing Room, Whitechapel Home for Orphans, Whitechapel, London, England_

Tom promptly broke the seal and opened the envelope. Two sheets of parchment fell into his lap. He seized the letter and read it, his heart beating a mile a minute.

_Dear Mr. Riddle,_

_It is my great pleasure to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Term begins on September 1st, 1943. You will need to catch the 11:00 Hogwarts Express on Platform 9 Â¾ at King's Cross Station on that day. A list of school items has been enclosed._

_Give my regards to Hannah Hiddy. Tell her, from me, that I still wear those socks she knitted for me in her fourth year, and they are still the most comfortable socks I have._

_Yours Truly,_

_Professor Albus Dumbledore_

_Deputy Headmaster_

As though on cue, Hannah entered the room at that moment. She saw Tom sitting on the bed with his back turned,  
and immediately anticipated the worst: that Mr. Carney had not forgotten about the beating after all. "Tom?" she said gently. "Are you all right?"

Tom turned to face her, and Hannah nearly fainted. Tom Riddle, the boy who was well known for being perpetually gloomy, was beaming. His eyes were alive with happiness. Hannah found the effect slightly alarming, and she staggered backward a few steps. "I made it in!" he whispered. "I did it." Before Hannah could ask what he meant, he brandished the papers at her, smiling still wider. "Professor Dumbledore wants me to tell you he still wears those socks you gave him," Tom added as an afterthought. "But Hannah, Hannah, Hannah, I did it! I DID IT!" Tom grabbed Hannah's forearms and danced around the room. He seemed to be possessed by a new energy Hannah had never seen before.

"Tom--calm down--" Hannah sank onto the bed, exhausted, her face whiter than snow. Tom did not mind. He continued to spin around the room like a top, singing impromptu. Hannah noticed that he sang as well as his mother, if not better. "Tom, stop!" she commanded, though reluctant to stop listening to his voice. "If you keep on at that level, Mr. Carney will wake up and he'll come down here." Tom stopped singing immediately at mention of Mr. Carney, and he halted in mid-spin.

"Can we go shopping for my school things?" Tom asked eagerly after the awkward silence.

"We'll go in a couple of hours," Hannah replied. "I'll have to sneak you out, though. I brought you some breakfast," she added, indicating the bowl of porridge in her hands, which had slopped around an awful lot while Hannah had been spinning around the room.

"Thank you, Hannah," Tom said, the grin lingering on his face.

After Tom had finished his breakfast, Hannah took out her wand and tidied Tom up a bit (he still had soap suds in his hair, and his uniform was caked with dirt). Hannah disappeared briefly, and when she re-entered, she had good news. "Mr. Carney is still asleep, Tom," she informed him. "Hurry, now, we can get out through the back door."

* * *


End file.
